The Weight of Unspoken Things

He found me sketching in the back alley behind the café, a place most people avoided. Said it smelled like stale coffee and regret. I told him that’s where the honest stories lived.
We started talking, just snippets at first – the weather, bad tips, his frustrating photography project. Small talk for two ships passing in the night, but even then…even then there was something.
He saw the way my hands trembled when I held a cup of coffee, how I always chose a table facing the wall, and he didn't ask questions. He just started leaving small wildflowers on my table, each one tucked into a tiny origami crane. Never said a word, just a quiet acknowledgment.
Last night, we sat in silence for hours at that same café. The city hummed around us, but inside felt…still. I traced the rim of my cup and he reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. It wasn’t a grand gesture or anything poetic like you read about. Just warmth.
It was enough to shatter something fragile within me, years of building walls against anyone getting too close. Enough that now all I want is for him to stay.

Editor: Alleyway Friend